It didn't surprise me to read last week that the state was still a pretty bad parent, but it made my heart sink that things haven't moved on from when I left care 10 years ago. At the age of 15, I was in a local authority children's home in the north of England. I was self-harming, absconding and experimenting with drugs. I had been sent to many different specialists and the situation was becoming grave. I later saw a letter in my social services file that my social worker, who fought tooth and nail for me, had written to the chief executive of my local authority: "We all feel that we must give her something to live for before we have a real disaster on our hands."

My social worker found a suitable placement for me. It was expensive and it was in north Wales, but a child psychiatrist had identified it as the best place for me. After more hard work from my social worker, along with a complaint letter I wrote while sectioned on an adult psychiatric ward, the funding was finally agreed.

When I arrived in rural Wales, doped up on medication, I thought I was hallucinating. I was from the city; now all I could see were snow-covered hills and the occasional dwelling. This was not an ordinary children's home: young people lived in normal houses or cottages with a team manager and three staff, one of whom was present 24 hours a day. It was going to be hard to abscond from this place, I thought.

I didn't settle very well; I was still full of rage and I rejected carer after carer. Then, after around six months, Annie entered my life. She was unlike anyone I had met before. A qualified teacher, she had travelled the world and, importantly, was a mother to two sons. As usual, I was rude to her and belligerent for months until things came to a head one day and she asked me if I would like her to leave. I broke down, and apologised and begged her to stay. You see, the other carers were in their 20s and I think they had been trying to befriend me, which was not what I needed. Annie would open the windows every morning to air the rooms, meals were always at the table, and I was expected to keep my room clean and to live a normal life. Such simplicity is what is so often missing in the care system.

We soon bonded and I began to settle for the first time in years. I was eating normally, working at an outdoors centre, and being a normal teenager. Annie was very caring and she parented me; once she was disciplined for calling me "sweetie", and she was considered somewhat unorthodox. I think this was because some managers at the centre were fixated with radical methods of care and control and perhaps terrified of close relationships due to past scandals at care homes.

Ihad left school with no GCSEs at the age of 14. My return to education came through Annie's clever encouragement of my interests, which began on a day trip when I was 17 and heard Fergal Keane on the car radio reporting on the Rwandan genocide. I was interested, so Annie bought me his book, Letter to Daniel. From there, my interest in reading and education spiralled. In 2003, I graduated with a 2:1 in religious and cultural studies from the University of Surrey.

I am one of the lucky care leavers. I had a good social worker who fought for a life-changing placement, and then I had Annie. But it shouldn't be pot luck. If the government is serious about being a better parent and changing outcomes so that care leavers go on to college and work, rather than prisons and park benches, they need to train more Annies and invest in top quality social workers.

• Dawn Howley was in care from age 14 to 18. She is now involved with Kids Company and mental health organisation Stand To Reason